


Brighton

by haisai_andagii



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 05:56:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3966970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haisai_andagii/pseuds/haisai_andagii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Detective Steve Rogers and his partner have been given the task of finding the kingpin of a wildly successful ecstasy ring in the eclectic Eastern European hub of Brighton Beach, NY.  Steve tries to find the elusive "Quicksilver" and his crew in order to keep the peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brighton

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheGreatCatsby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreatCatsby/gifts).



Steve spotted the boy skulking on his usual boardwalk spot - the one by the Nathan's stand, with Wonder Wheel and the Atlantic looming in the background.  He was eating a hot dog, swinging his lanky legs over the railing where he perched and watched the people go by on the boardwalk.

"That no-named punk better have something for us," he heard his partner mumble.  Brock side-stepped a gaggle of girls darting between as they made their way to the shooting gallery.  Steve pulled on the sleeve on his coat when his eyes lingered on their hemlines a little too long.

During the day, Brighton was a land of sand dunes, rolling waves, and cheap amusements.  The only thing beneath the boardwalk were gulls, romantics, and vagrants trying to stay out of the sun. 

But at night, the small underworld of Brighton Beach blossomed under new, aggressive leadership.  The rumor was started off a small time pusher - selling ecstasy and acid to club-goers - ran the entire neighborhood.  Selling hard drugs made cheap and plentiful, their target used the basic law of economics to undercut his most of his competition.  As for the rest that refused to take their losses gracefully...

In only three months, no less than thirteen bodies - bloated by the sea and the sun - washed ashore and feasted on by the crabs from the morning tide.  The Hungarians, Estonian, and Romanians moved quickly and quietly back into their staples of extortion and counterfeit food stamps.  But it was the Little Odessas - the Russians - that terrorized the Balkan beach haven as they searched for the man that set their own afloat in the Atlantic.  But no one had answers.  No one even knew from which community from they hailed. 

Brighton's precincts redoubled their efforts.  A turf war was the last thing they needed their superiors claimed.  Steve bit the inside of his cheek as Fury read Schmidt's memo to the bullpen and heard excited jeering of his fellow cops.  Half of them were in Odessa's pocket - bloodthirsty bunch fighting for money and a few kills...

"Do me a favor, Rumlow," Steve replied as they neared their informant.  "Don't be your usual charming self and maybe - just maybe - our friend will trust us enough to catch him."

"Whatever," he half-growled, rolling his splintering toothpick between his teeth.  "What in hell kind of handle is 'Quicksilver' for a drug lord anyway."

"It is another name for the god 'Mercury..." the boy explained as they slowed to a stop by his side.  Steve noted he wore his usual hoodie - blue, threadbare, and billowing - and bucket hat that hung over the his nape.  The boy peered at them from his the khaki brim, his ketchup-covered fingers lingered in his mouth as he narrowed his eyes as he looked them up and down.

"In order to survive in the chaotic business, you gotta be fast.  Think fast, run fast-"

"Shoot fast, kid?" Brock said, cutting him off.

"If one must," he replied smoothly before devouring the rest of the hot dog.  Chewing steadily, he wiped his hands on a napkin before fishing out a crumbled piece of paper.  He shoved it into Steve's hand, the tips of his fingers lingers on the edge of his palm as he slowly pulled away.   Steve unfolded the note, seeing a crudely drawn wheel in the center of it.  The wheel had four spokes and each space between the spokes was a series of numbers.

Steve knew them instantly - building, block, and borough numbers.  A date and time.

"What the fuck does this mean?" Rumlow huffed over his shoulder, plucking the paper from his grasp.  "We pay you good money and you're telling us we still have to break out our decoder rings?"

The boy sniffed, pulling out another hot dog from his hoodie's front pocket and unwrapping it. 

"I need an idea of what's waiting for us," Steve asked, his softer tone nearly drowned out by the rushing waves and the cry of the gulls.  "Please, Pietro."

The boy's eyes - Pietro's eyes - went wide.

"So, that's your name, huh?" he heard Brock crow.  " _Pietro_." 

He said nothing, letting the shouts of the vendors fill the silence.

Pietro held out his hand, flexing his fingers.  Steve reached into his jacket pocket, produced his wallet and placed a crisp one hundred dollar bill into his palm.  He took a large bite out of his hot dog as he examined his money. 

"I am a snitch.  So, I snitched," the boy said matter-of-factually, between the smacks of his lips.  "You are detectives.  So, you decipher the clues."  He slipped down from the railing onto his feet.  Pietro tucked the empty wrapper into Steve's coat pocket before walking off.

The men watched him go until he was swallowed up by the crowd.

"Little shit," Brock muttered.  "Let's get the fuck outta here." 

Steve ignored him as he took the wrapper from his pocket and carefully unfolded it.

He found a LSD patch - cut in the shape of a lighting bolt.

~~~

Romanov and Wilson dropped him off by his apartment door.

"I'll go in with you," Wilson said, his hands already on his seat belt.  Steve clasped the man's shoulder, wincing as his arm shifted in his sling.

"No."

"But-"

"No," he said - his tone more tired than firm.  "But thank you.  See you tomorrow."

"Steve," Romanov protested, turning in her seat to look at him.  "Captain said-"

"I'll see you tomorrow." 

Steve climbed out of the car before they could protest.  His neighbor, Sharon, was leaving as he climbed the stoop.  He slipped past her inside and headed toward the stairs.  His legs burned with each step as he made the climb up to his fourth floor walk-up.  He hobbled down the corridor to his apartment door.  The key jingled in his shaky hands as he opened the door and stepped inside.  The heady scent of spices and stewed meat swarmed him.  He saw light emanating from his kitchenette.

"If you here to finish the job..." he called out, hands drawing the gun from his holster.  There was a faint clangor of pots and a hiss of water landing on hot stove top. 

"I did not expect you to be home so soon," Pietro said, emerging from the kitchenette, holding bowls of stew on a serving tray.  "I made janija.  Rromani stew..."

Steve re-holstered his gun.  He grunted, shrugging himself free from his coat and limped toward the couch where he sank down onto it.  It groaned under his weight. 

"We're celebrating," his companion replied happily as he trotted over, placing the tray on the coffee table.

"A lot good people died-"

"And a lot of evil people went right on with them."  The boy didn't falter as he placed Steve's bowl into his hands.  "They all had it coming anyway..."

"And why is that?"

"Because of how they treat us - for thinking our people are their personal chattel...  It wasn't a petty vendetta, Steve." Pietro paused, his fingers fell away as he made a grab for his own food.  He shook his head and let out a chuckle - dry, empty.  "This was about survival as it always has been - They are gone and we are still here."

"What about justice?" Steve murmured, watching the rust colored broth circling the beef.  He set it aside as a sour taste filled his mouth.   "What about their day in court? What about Lorn-"

Pietro laughed.  Steve shivered.  The boy slipped onto his lap and pressed a kiss against his lips.  Steve hummed, his body going slack as his good hand pressed against his hat.  He slid the cap off as Pietro pulled back.  The boy stared down at him - his hair sterling as the moon, eyes as fathomless as the sea.

Rumlow, the Odessa, several of his own from his precinct: he saw their lifeless faces flash in the reflection of Pietro's eyes.  Steve's stomach roiled.

"Get out," he heard himself say.  "This is over.  All of it." 

"S-Steve-"

"Get off of me and leave."

His arm throbbed as the boy climbed out of his lap.   Pietro grabbed his hat and shoved it roughly down on his head.  Steve watched him stalk over to the window by the fire escape and throw it open.  Pietro's hand lingered on the ledge before slipping out onto the walkway. 

"Thank you, Steve Rogers," he said softy.  "I'll never forget what you've done for me and my sisters..."  Then, Pietro closed the window and disappeared out of sight.

Steve looked back at the janija - still very hot- and took it in his trembling hand.  He scooped up a spoonful and devoured it.  It scalded his tongue as it trickling down his throat and hit his stomach with a burning sizzle.  And he choked it down until it was all gone.


End file.
